Casey vs Everyday Life
by verkisto
Summary: Not every minute of an NSA agent's day is filled with spy intrigue. Or are they? Our world as seen through the eyes of a highly trained and experienced - but more than a little paranoid - NSA agent.
1. Casey Goes Marketing

Casey pulled the Crown Vic around to the far end of the parking lot, as far away from the grocery store as he could get, rolling into a space right in the middle of a row of several vacant spots. Didn't want some asshole dinging his baby with a door, not after he had spent the whole morning carefully washing and waxing her.

He put on the emergency brake and turned the engine off, but before he removed the keys from the ignition, he clicked them around a click more than ignition keys usually went in cars, which flipped up a secret compartment on the dashboard revealing a niche behind the environmental controls.

A small screen lit up inside and slid towards him, the screen raising up so a compact keyboard could slide out from underneath and ahead of it for easy access. When the apparatus had locked into place, Casey began tapping the keys and setting the car's security timer.

"This should take no more than two hours," he said to the windshield and punched that figure in before hitting the tiny "Enter" button, which caused the small computer to accept the value and end the setup program, shutting the monitor down and sliding everything back into place.

Casey now had two hours to finish his shopping and get back to the Crown Vic; otherwise, neither his remote control nor his keys would unlock or start the car and he'd have to get an NSA special squad to come and tow it away to the agency's motor pool, and that would just be embarrassing.

Casey smiled as he got out and clicked his remote to lock the car's security system down, confident in the knowledge that, even if somebody broke into the car's factory-made locks – which was about as easy to do as falling down a flight of stairs – they would never be able to crack the car's real security system. And if they couldn't do that, they wouldn't be able to start the engine or find the large assortment of weapons, fixed armaments, tracking systems and various other NSA odds and ends that were built into her.

Casey pocketed his keys and walked over to the nearest buggy stand, sorting around in the same pocket for a quarter. He put the coin into the slot and pulled out the chain that was tethering the buggy to the others in the row. Jerking it free from its mate, he wheeled around to make his way to the store.

He scowled at the other shoppers as he walked across the lot, their cars becoming more densely packed as he got closer to the entrance, and managed to arrive without getting hit or having to punch anybody for driving like an idiot.

As he pushed the cart up a small ramp and into the store, his attention was diverted by a pretty young miss, probably about nineteen or thereabouts, who was standing to one side handing out store flyers. Casey looked her up and down appreciatively, giving her a warm smile and a twinkle from his eyes. He reached out to take a flyer, still smiling as he said, "Thanks," and was pleased to see that the girl actually giggled and simpered a bit as she handed it to him.

_You've still got it, old boy_, he thought, chuckling slightly as he wheeled his cart into the shopping area of the store.

Going into the fresh produce section, Casey flicked his eyes to the ceiling on his first trip around, noting where the store's cameras were and seeing that there was no door to the back from this portion of the store. On his second round, he grabbed several clear plastic bags from their dispenser and put them on the child seat of his buggy, stopping in front of the string beans and turning his cart in a direction against the flow of traffic so he could face the entrance of the store.

He filled a plastic bag with beans, only looking at the vegetables for fractions of seconds at a time to make sure he got them in the bag, darting his eyes around himself and assessing the other shoppers.

_Mother, two small children. Looks too tired to be anything but what she appears. Weekend warrior. Too many beers in that belly to be a threat. Old couple, one with a walker. The cane could be a weapon and granny seems to be wearing a lot of clothes for a hot day. Maybe she's just cold and that's not a semi under there. Hot SoCal chick. Man, those could hold a lot of C-4. Probably not, though._

He chuckled to himself a bit before thinking, _I'd have to do a manual inspection to find out. Wonder if I need a warrant?_

Chuckling again, he twirled the full bag of beans around in the air and tied a knot to close it, throwing it into the basket part and spinning the buggy around to travel along the edge of the cooler.

After he had filled several bags with different loose vegetables and fruits, he stopped to pick up a ten-pound bag of potatoes and placed it on the wire rack under his cart. When he had straightened up again, he turned and almost bumped into the large breasts he had just been ogling, quickly shifting his gaze upwards to the face that went with them.

"Can you help me?" the woman asked, a worried look around her mouth.

It bothered Casey a bit that she didn't remove her sunglasses since that meant he couldn't see her eyes, and he grunted and lowered his brows together to try to frighten her off. Unfortunately, she took his grunt for a "yes" and continued on.

The woman held up a piece of paper that had been ripped out of a magazine. It looked as though it had some kind of recipe printed on it, but it was a little difficult to be sure as she waved it about in the air while she talked.

"Do you know what a rutabaga is? Only I have to do this recipe for a potluck for my book club this afternoon and I can't find one anywhere. I think it's a vegetable, though," she said, desperation evident in her tone as she caught her bottom lip up between her teeth and waited for his answer.

Casey grunted again. Well, as long as it was a real crisis.

He stared straight into the centers of the woman's sunglasses and barked out in clipped tones, "Rutabaga, _brassica napobrassica_, a root vegetable that's a cross between a cabbage and a turnip, also known as Swede, turnip, neap or snagger in various parts of the world."

Casey turned the upper part of his body around and grabbed a medium-sized rutabaga from the pile nearby, turning back and tossing it into the air, forcing the woman to react quickly to catch it before it fell to the floor, her mouth forming a round "O" of surprise as she caught it and fumbled a bit so she wouldn't drop it.

Casey grunted once more in amusement before skillfully wheeling his buggy around the woman and carrying on down the aisle. He figured about now she had probably taken off her sunglasses and was staring at his back as he sauntered away, grinning to himself. Let her tell that one to her book club while they were discussing _Green Eggs and Ham_.

Turning into the next section, Casey noted the butcher's display cooler and the man behind it with the big knife who was chopping up a large portion of cow with controlled precision. Standing to admire the man's skill for a moment and flicking his eyes left and right without turning his head, Casey managed to also decide which roast from the cuts on display he wanted and pointed it out to the butcher's assistant, who wrapped it up, weighed it, and added a price sticker before handing the bundle over.

As Casey reached up and over the counter to take the package, his eye caught the image of a woman reflected in the convex mirror hanging from the ceiling at the end of the produce aisle. She appeared to be looking intently at him, and he took the meat and put it in his cart, all the while keeping his eye on the mirror and only turning away when it would seem unnatural not to do so.

Looking out of the corner of his eye as he wheeled his cart away from the meat counter, he noticed the woman had dropped her eyes to the floor and turned her head to one side, as though she thought she might have been caught looking, and he sped up, rapidly wheeling his cart around the corner and down the aisle offering baking supplies and canned goods, managing to get about halfway down just as the woman turned her cart into the other end of the aisle.

Casey brought his cart to a stop in front of the flour section and casually put his hand behind his back, gripping the gun that was holstered there, clipped to his belt and concealed by his pants.

The woman, eyes still turned to the floor, sped her cart by him, flicking her eyes to his face as she passed, looking like she was going to burst into tears when she saw his nasty scowl as he turned his head to follow her progress. She zipped around the end of the shelving into the next aisle and Casey released the butt of his gun, willing himself to relax and continue on with his shopping.

Next thing he knew, there was a loud report of a gunshot from the adjacent aisle, and Casey reached around behind his back again and whipped his gun out of its holster, holding it securely with both hands and pointing the barrel to the floor as he stepped carefully but quickly in a sort of a crouching walk to the end of the aisle and circled the shelving so he could peek around the corner.

As he moved his head sideways, only allowing one eye to poke past the edge of the shelves and holding his gun in front of himself to hide it from any people who might be behind him, he was relieved to see that what he had thought was a gunshot had actually been the sound of a large jar of pickles shattering as it crashed to the floor. Pickles and pointed shards of glass were covering the shoes of the nervous woman who had been watching him and the brine was slowly spreading out around her, its sharp smell finally reaching Casey's nose as the PA crackled to life and a disembodied voice announced, _Cleanup on aisle six!_

Casey's breath whooshed out of his lungs and he spun around back towards the aisle where he had left his cart, smoothly re-holstering his gun behind himself when his back was turned towards the shelves.

He strode along in front of the spices and sugar and bags of nuts, stopping again at the flour and selecting a five-pound bag. He then backtracked, picking up packages from the nut, sugar and spices sections, then left the cart for a moment to go and get a package of chocolate chips. Jumbo-sized ones. They made cookies that were perfect for dipping into his milk as he surveilled Chuck's apartment in the evenings.

Casey continued on with his shopping, on the alert as before while making his selections but encountering no further problems until he got to the frozen prepared foods cabinets lining the far wall of the store.

He was busy opening doors and pulling out frosted boxes of pizza, macaroni and cheese and Hungry Man dinners when he noticed some movement a little too close for his liking. Casey closed the door that he was currently holding open and whirled around, elbows bent and hands raised to cover his chest and abdomen with lightly clenched fists.

"Waddaya want?" he ground out before realizing it was the pickle lady again, standing there looking at him as though she was afraid he really might hit her, trying to say something but only stuttering a bit.

Casey backed off and lowered his arms to his sides, waiting for her to get up enough nerve to actually speak coherently.

Finally, she blurted out, "You must be single. All those frozen..." and trailed off as she lost her nerve again.

Casey quickly dipped his left hand into his pocket and scrabbled around a bit, pulling it back out when he had managed to slip the gold wedding band he always carried for just such emergencies onto the third finger.

Casually but prominently displaying the ring, he replied, "Oh, no. Wife's away for the week. Just a temporary bachelor. Can't wait until she gets back."

The woman flushed deeply but persisted.

"Oh. Same here. My husband's away on a business trip. He won't be back for three days at least. I thought maybe we could –"

Casey, more than a bit surprised that the ring hadn't been a big enough hint, cut her off, whispering, "Look, lady, as flattering as this is and all, I think if you want to pick up guys you should go to a bar. Now scoot."

He couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the poor woman as she opened and closed her mouth a couple of times and looked at him through sad and defeated eyes before she turned away and fled down the aisle.

Casey stopped to consider for a moment. _Actually, it's not a bad idea looking for action here. I might try it sometime_, and he turned to the freezer again to carry on with his shopping. He then picked up a couple of bottles of wine and three six-packs of canned beer and added them to the top of his now-full cart.

By the time he decided he had finally found everything he needed and had wheeled over to an unoccupied checkout, Casey was feeling a bit tired. It was nerve-wracking, this grocery shopping thing. He wondered how normal people coped with all the tension as he stacked his groceries on the moving belt that was chugging them towards the bored-looking woman behind the till.

After she had swiped them across the UPC reader and weighed and rung up the vegetables, the woman, in a drawling tone of voice that matched her blank facial expression, held out a limp hand in Casey's direction, saying, "That'll be $223.65. Credit card or store card?"

Casey pulled out his wallet and riffled through a thick pile of bills, selecting $230.00 and offering it to the checkout clerk.

When she looked up at him in surprise instead of taking the money, he growled, "It's cash. Legal tender. Look it up," and thrust the wad of paper a bit closer so she would take it as she began to scowl back.

Casey accepted the change and receipt and decided that he wouldn't get pissed when he didn't hear a cheery "Thank you for shopping with us, sir!" Under the circumstances, he guessed he deserved it, and he put the change in his pocket, the bills in his billfold, and tucked the receipt into a compartment at the back behind his cash so he would remember to include it in his expense report to the NSA at the end of the month.

He pushed his cart, now with his groceries stowed neatly in paper sacks, out of the store and back to his car with half an hour to spare, sincerely looking forward to being in the sanctuary of his apartment once again where he would be surrounded by top-secret reports, guns, knives and high-tech surveillance equipment – things he understood – so he could shuck off his shoes and pop a cold beer.


	2. Casey Goes to the Gym

When he was in Washington, Casey preferred to go to the NSA gym with its state-of-the-art equipment monitored by the agency's best physicians, kineticists and top-notch trainers who understood what was required to mold the agents under their charge into human weapons that were a precise meld of mind, bone and muscle.

When he wasn't in Washington, Casey made do with a local fitness pit.

Pushing open the glass door and shifting the equipment bag slung over his shoulder so it would fit through the opening, Casey walked in and approached the front desk. He swiped his membership card in the reader and then pocketed it to head for the change room where he switched his usual black ensemble for specially developed NSA trainers designed to look like a popular brand of shoe – complete with the swoosh – a pair of shorts, a long-sleeved shirt of lightweight, flexible fabric and soft but durable neoprene fingerless exercise gloves with a desert camo print.

Putting his equipment bag on the wooden bench that ran down the room in front of the bank of lockers, Casey carefully folded his street clothes and tucked them inside, then took a smaller nylon bag out. He did a final close inspection of the locker he had chosen, making sure the door wasn't bent in any way and the interior was clean before placing his equipment bag inside. As he closed the door to the locker – which was as far away from the entrance to the change room as he could get and on the side of the room that would allow him to see the doors to both the exit and the steam room – he pressed a small length of thread against the frame and held it in place until it was caught by the closed door. If anyone opened and then closed the locker again while he was away, he would know immediately by the position of the thread.

When Casey was satisfied that his makeshift trip system had been properly set up, he hooked a special NSA combination lock through the holes on the locker's handle and closed it, wheeling the dial around after the hasp had snicked into place. It was special because the casing was thicker to make it harder to hear or feel what the tumblers were doing, and any cracker who had the patience to roll through ten digits instead of the usual three deserved to take possession of Casey's sweaty socks.

Walking into the warm-up area, Casey scanned quickly in all directions and, without pausing, headed for the far corner, scooping up an elastic stretch band on the way and depositing it and his small bag on the floor in an empty space near a wall completely covered with mirror. He opened his bag and extracted a bottle of water, twisting open the lid and taking a mouthful. As he swished the water around in his mouth, he turned slowly and made one more assessment of the room and its occupants.

Some of the usual gym rats were here for this time period. Casey didn't always see the same group of people on each visit. His job didn't allow for regular or consistent scheduling of workout times, and even it if had, it would be bad field practice to show up always on the same days and at the same times. Despite this, Casey was becoming familiar with the people who did operate in this fashion.

There was the guy over there doing crunches on the floor in search of the perfect six-pack. His form needed some adjustment since all he would succeed in doing by flailing around like that was pulling something and going flabby when he couldn't exercise anymore.

The woman with pretty much no body fat was hopping around and punishing a large sandbag with short, sharp jabs, hard and tanned and glistening and about as sexy as a six-day bus trip. At least to Casey's tastes, anyway.

And off to his left, there was another woman he recognized, the one with the big butt and thighs who, headphones from her MP3 player firmly screwed into her ears and eyesight turned inwards, was doggedly doing half-squats and wobbly lunges, exhibiting a rare sort of courage by even being here trying to get fit. Casey hoped her friends and family either actively helped her or at least stayed out of her way, and he noted the improvement in her shape from the first time he had seen her at the gym, barely able to bend her knees but holding back her tears and trying anyway.

Finally satisfied that there didn't appear to be any bad guys about, Casey began to do some warm-up stretches, sometimes holding onto the barre that ran along the mirrored wall.

Every few seconds, he remembered to check in the mirror to see what was going on behind him. This meant he couldn't concentrate on his stretches the way he would have liked to, the way he could at the NSA training facility, but better safe than sorry, and caution and attentiveness were so ingrained in him after all these years that Casey wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he slept with his eyes open.

Finished with simple stretching, Casey took another mouthful of water before picking up the elastic band and using it to repeat his stretches while adding a bit of resistance. He continued with the mirror-checking routine and, when he felt he was limber enough to change exercises, put his water bottle into his bag and moved to the weight room.

When he got there, Casey had to make do with the only machine available. Pretty busy in here today. He put his bag beside the leg machine and leaned down to check the weight level, pulling the small pin out and moving it down to add two more metal bars of resistance. He then got a spray bottle and towel out of his bag and misted the padded seat and hand grips lightly before swiping the towel across them, disinfecting the apparatus quickly and efficiently. Casey was conscious of how swiftly an agent could be knocked out of commission by something as innocuous as a cold or virus. He wasn't a big fan of not being able to do his job. Plus he wasn't too interested in sitting in another guy's butt sweat.

He sat down and adjusted his hips into a comfortable position before grasping the handholds and placing his feet squarely on the rectangular platforms that were attached to the stack of weights behind him.

The weight room was where a regular gym visit always got a bit tricky. Proper use of the machines didn't allow Casey to turn his head, thereby limiting his field of view, and there were usually no handy mirrors nearby. It was much more difficult than in the warm-up section to keep tabs on his surroundings. If Casey were training at the NSA facility, he could afford to let his guard down – as much as he was ever able to do so – and concentrate on his form and counting reps. Here, he felt the overwhelming compulsion of an active agent to remain vigilant so it meant his brain would have to work just as hard as his body during the workout. In a way, it was even more exhilarating, since the oxygen pumping through his tissues helped him to stay alert. It just meant he had to forgo some of the more visceral aspects of the kind of hard, sweaty, targeted workout a protected environment offered.

And pushing the experience to another level for Casey was the feeling of almost complete nakedness. He had a nice little piece in his small bag, of course, tucked into a secret holster attached to the inside of one end of the bag. It was right there within easy reach, but Casey was used to the feeling of maybe a handgun concealed in his back waistband or nestled up snug under his arm and covered by a suit jacket, ankle holsters and knife sheathes adorning his body the way some women wore jewelry, secure in the position it gave them in society and conferring an entitled confidence to the wearer.

As Casey got into a rhythm, remembering to breathe and not turn his feet out, he was instantly aware when the man started watching him. While keeping his head directed to the front, Casey flicked his eyes over and back again to get a better look. He slowed down the motion of his legs a bit just in case he had to dismount quickly and go for his gun, and when the man began to approach, Casey calculated how long it would take him at his present rate of speed to reach the optimum point at which the agent would have to make a move to retrieve his weapon. Luckily, the man stopped just before he reached that point.

A little loudly so his voice would carry over the general noise of the room, the man said, "Finish out. I'll wait," and crossed his arms in front of his chest, standing unmoving with feet apart and looking at Casey with a carefully assessing gaze.

Casey figured he should do about ten more reps to make it look good just in case this wasn't some kind of bad guy confrontation, and when he was done, made to stand up. The man moved quickly to stop him with a light hand on one of the foot platforms and said, "No, stay. I'm a new trainer here. I was just watching you work out. Nice form."

Casey, feeling his usual caution in situations with civilians, looked up at the man and grunted. Nothing for it now. The man was in between him and his gun. Maybe he was what he said he was. If not, Casey could always buckle the guy's knee with the quick application of a foot to the outside of the joint, ripping out the ligaments and crippling him in one motion.

Satisfied that this was a good backup plan, Casey grunted out a low, "Thanks," and waited to see what the man was going to do next.

"My name's Eustace Greenwood," the man said, extending a brown-skinned hand. "I hope you don't mind. I was hoping that, if you don't already have a trainer, I might give you some pointers today. If you like what you hear, maybe you'll want to hire me to help you out."

Casey was about to dismiss the man with a glare and another grunt when the trainer continued. "You Forces? I was Marines. Two tours."

Casey took another less cursory look at the man. That's what it was about him. A kindred spirit. Reaching up and grasping Greenwood's proffered hand, Casey said, "Nice to meet you. Mike Brewer. Former Air Force."

"Ha! I knew it!" the man exclaimed, smiling broadly as he pumped Casey's hand. Casey allowed himself a little smile at the man's enthusiasm. Well, this had already gone probably a bit too far. Might as well see what the guy had to offer. It might be entertaining to act like real people for an hour or so. Casey decided to think of it as a cover practice exercise and relaxed his face into a genuine welcoming smile as Greenwood said, "Mike. Let's get started. I've got some ideas you might like."

They spent some more time on the leg machine, and Casey was surprised to feel a little excitement when Greenwood got him to change the position of his hands on the grips just a small amount. The adjustment allowed him to produce a bit more energy down and through his legs, making this weight level feel suddenly lighter and easier to push. This guy was good.

They then moved to an arm machine that had become vacant and Greenwood did another assessment of Casey's movements before making a couple of suggestions that, when Casey followed them, resulted in an immediate improvement in the ratio of energy expended to exercise accomplished.

And then it happened. Casey was having fun. He mentally scolded himself when he realized that he had forgotten to scan the room for a whole minute, and when his smile disappeared, Greenwood's face clouded over as well.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Nothing hurting, I trust?"

"No, that's okay," Casey replied, bringing his movements to a halt. "I just remembered I've got someplace to go, that's all."

Standing up and then stooping back down to grab the nylon bag, Casey turned to face Greenwood. The man pulled a business card out of a small pocket on his shirt and handed it to Casey, saying, "Well, Mike, I hope I haven't scared you off. Us military guys have to stick together."

Casey put the card in an outside pocket of his bag, then held his hand out for a shake. As the men pumped hands again, Casey said, "Thanks, Eustace, that was great. I'll certainly think about giving you a call," and he paused and gave Greenwood a half-smile tinged with regret before turning to go to the change rooms.

* * *

After Casey took a quick shower and changed back into his street clothes, he exited the building and returned to the Crown Vic, activating the security override and tossing his gym bag onto the back seat. He reached into the bag's pocket, pulled Greenwood's business card out, and got into the driver's seat, fastening his seat belt. Before he started her up to leave, however, he pulled a cell phone out of a small cubby hole under the dash and dialed a ten-digit number. He then entered six more numbers and raised the phone to his ear before saying, "Casey, secure," into the mouthpiece.

* * *

Eustace Greenwood had spent an enjoyable afternoon with the Air Force guy. The man had more than the basics down pat and Eustace was proud that he had been able to show Mike – what was his name again? – oh, yeah, Mike Brewer – something a bit new. Maybe he'd be lucky and get a call from the man. His first client! And somebody it wouldn't be a chore to train. Eustace knew they wouldn't all be like Mike. Hell, he knew that probably none of his future clients would be like Mike, somebody who actually enjoyed the rigors of physical activity the way only a real serviceman or woman could.

He couldn't wait to tell Neesie. She'd be thrilled. Maybe he'd take her out for a romantic dinner and make it an event. He walked into his office and picked up the phone, hit speed dial number one and said in a low, seductive voice, "Bernice, how would you like to go out for dinner with the most handsome, most successful fitness trainer in L.A.?"

* * *

After he had finished for the day and showered and changed into a nice casual set of trousers and a sports jacket that he kept in his office for just such eventualities, Eustace walked out into the foyer of the gym. As he was about to push the front door open, calling out, "'Bye, Nancy!" he stopped and snapped his fingers, whirled around and walked back to the front desk.

"Nancy, can you please get the file on a Mike Brewer and put it on my desk for me for tomorrow? I might be able to drum up some business."

"Oh, good for you, Eustace," Nancy said as she swiveled around in her chair and tapped the keys on the keyboard. After a moment, her brow creased in puzzlement. "Brewer, did you say?" she asked, looking up at Greenwood. "We don't have a Mike Brewer in the system."

"Well, you must have," Greenwood insisted, coming around the front desk to stand behind the woman as she tried again. "Tall guy, white, big arms, short brown hair, looks around a lot."

"Oh, him," Nancy said, a sly smile forming on her face. "Mr. Sexpants. I don't know why I can't find it. I saw him sign in and sign out today."

Eustace, a bit scandalized, gaped at Nancy for a moment as she explained, "It's kind of a lottery around here, who gets to be on desk duty when he comes in. I won today."

Laughing as he moved back out from behind the counter, Greenwood shook his head in amusement and said, "Well, if you wouldn't mind having another look, I'll see what I can do to make sure he comes around here a lot more often."

Once again going towards the door to leave, Greenwood had to retrace his steps when Nancy called out, "Eustace, you have a call. The woman says it's really important. I'll put it through to your office on line three."

Now he was going to be late meeting Bernice. Well, it couldn't be helped, and Greenwood marched back to his office hoping that this really was important so he could use it as an excuse for making her wait. He picked up the phone's handset and punched the flashing button, saying a curt, "Hello?"

The woman's voice on the other end was all business. "Mr. Eustace Greenwood?" she asked and waited for his confirmation. "My name is General Diane Beckman. I have a proposal that you might be interested in."

Eustace listened, dumbstruck, as the woman outlined a very generous offer from the NSA of a job in Washington, D.C., as a physical trainer in their new agent program. The catch was it started immediately and was only being offered once. Could he pick up the first-class tickets at LAX and fly out right away and, of course, bring Bernice, certainly. They had an attractive position in her field she might be interested in as well.

Eustace eagerly replied that he could. Now, this was something that he and Bernice could really celebrate!

* * *

The following evening, Casey listened to the general as she informed him of Greenwood's acceptance of the position and thanked him for the lead. The agency's latest recruitment drive meant that they were going to need competent trainers in all departments and she asked him to keep his eyes open for more hopefuls in any discipline.

Before she signed off, the general commented on the speed of Casey's decision to make the recommendation.

Casey looked at the floor for a moment before raising his head to reply. "I'm afraid I compromised myself, General. I had to act quickly to maintain my cover."

The general nodded her head, understanding immediately.

"Friendship can sneak up on a person very quickly, Major. You did the right thing. I'm afraid you can't use that facility anymore, though. We hacked in and erased all of your records. Let me know which gym you select so we can send some personnel in to do a sweep. We'll try to get you back to your exercise regimen as soon as possible."

When the screen had blacked out, Casey turned and went into the kitchen to start preparing his supper. It had been nice, having a friend for one afternoon. He marveled for a moment that lots and lots of people had the opportunity to have friends for life. As he pulled open the refrigerator door, Casey hoped that they knew what a privilege that was.


	3. Casey Goes to the Bank

A visit to the bank was a little less hard on the nerves for Casey than most other errands he had to do in the non-spy world. At least one could go in with the presumption that the banks were designed with security in mind. Hard to be sure, though, as they seemed to get knocked over on a pretty regular basis. But since most robberies were attempted by amateurs, they tended to be unsuccessful, and any fiascos – the kind of robbery where people got hurt – were generally the result of bad planning or no planning or just plain bad luck.

Still, it was always a good idea to keep the old eyes and ears open, and Casey had given this bank a good once-over, even after the NSA assured him that their people had checked it out thoroughly.

So when he walked in through the ornate brass-framed front doors and saw the line-ups, it only put him on half-alert. Not a sleeper cell coup that would precipitate a worldwide overthrow of all that Casey held dear (mom, apple pie, the American flag, the right to bear arms, his Crown Vic), just a bunch of civilians in the same place running an everyday, mundane errand. With any luck, they'd all be intent on getting their banking done and getting out of there as quickly as possible, and Casey could do the same.

Even though he had been in the building many times in the recent past, Casey still, from long force of habit, swung his head around and checked all corners of the room – including the ceiling – after he had entered. No shadowy figures lurking on the mezzanine, check. Nobody wearing a face mask hiding behind the pillar in the far corner that partially obscured the doorway to the downstairs vault area, check. No deranged, drugged-out hippie holding that cute teller around the waist with a gun to her head while he ordered her to put all the money in a bag, check.

In fact, the cute teller had glanced up and smiled when she saw Casey's head looming above the rest of the bank's clients, but he pretended he hadn't noticed so he could look all nonchalant, studly G-man in his cool shades. Not that she knew he was a G-man, of course. Best damn card he had ever been dealt to play with the ladies and he wasn't even allowed to use it. Oh, well.

Pulling his full attention once again to what was happening inside the floridly decorated building, other than the long line-ups, Casey was only able to discern the rhythms of the usual business of a bank in the city. People were depositing their money, withdrawing their money, asking for loans and mortgages, and trying to build up savings so their kids could go to a decent school and wouldn't have to count their pennies quite as often as their forebears had had to. It was the same business that banks and bankers had been in for a few thousand years. Still, something seemed a little off.

Casey squinted his eyes behind the dark glasses and peered around himself even more carefully as he walked to one of the standing desks in the center of the high-ceilinged hall. He needed a better vantage point from where he could take a minute or so to look around and try to quell his tingling Spidey senses. Even when he finally directed his face towards the surface of the desk, his eyes darted first to the left of his position, then to the right, always vigilant. Just in case. Just in case of what was yet to be determined.

When his active brain had stilled long enough to register that there were no deposit slips in any of the slots on the long desk, Casey turned his head to look over his shoulder while he decided what he should do about it. Well, nothing else he could do, really, except join one of those four lines of people slowly shuffling now and then like sad and defeated chain gangs up to the four wickets that were currently open.

Casey moved over to the end of the lineup for the first teller. As he went, he casually scanned the people waiting ahead of him. It didn't look as though anybody was holding a large amount of papers or intended to do any weekly deposits for a business. Yes, he decided, this line would move up the fastest.

He positioned himself behind a woman who appeared to be a little bit agitated. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, first swaying a bit to the right, then the left, craning her neck and trying to look to the head of the line at the person who was transacting his bank business. It took all of two minutes before her jumping around like a disjointed Jack-In-The-Box got on Casey's nerves and he turned abruptly to move to the next line.

This one was a little less promising, as it held a couple of customers with big wads of paper clutched in one hand as they did giraffe imitations, extending their necks to the fullest length as though, by telegraphing their anxiety, they could make the busy teller do his work faster.

Expelling air sharply through his nostrils and making a low grumping noise in his throat, Casey tried the third lineup. This one was the longest of the four lines but, much to Casey's surprise, he began to move up quickly as each transaction only seemed to take about two minutes. Finally, it was Casey's turn.

He stepped up to the counter when the old woman working there looked up and scowled mightily at him. Since Casey figured this was all he was going to receive in the way of a friendly and personable greeting, he gave as good as he was getting and glared back at her. Suddenly remembering that he still wore his sunglasses, he removed them and placed them on the countertop in front of him so he could be sure she would see that he wasn't going away just because she seemed to be willing him to.

"What may I do for you, sir?" she asked in a dry monotone, obviously only reciting the line that some customer relations psychologist had cooked up in a head office somewhere.

"You may," Casey began, laying heavy stress on the word "may" and pausing for a fraction before continuing, "deposit this check for me."

He pulled his paycheck out of his jacket pocket, slapped it onto the countertop, and showed it to the teller briefly before pulling it back towards himself. Flipping the document over and reaching for the pen to his right, he turned his attention to the check as he wrote down his account number and endorsed it. When he had replaced the pen and slid the check back towards the teller, Casey was more than a little surprised to see the woman sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed tightly over her ample breasts and glaring at him even more intently than before.

"You need to fill out a deposit slip," she ground out, "sir."

Casey was very aware of the deliberate pause before "sir" was added at the end of this information and it immediately put him in Mr. Intimidating Man mode. Even though there was no discernable change to his facial expression, he seemed to expand while simply standing there and appeared to get a bit taller and a bit wider, which made him look quite a bit more scary than he had a moment before.

"There were none at the desk. Perhaps you can fill one out for me," he responded through drawn lips and a clenched jaw. After a pause that was exactly the same length as the one the teller had used, he ended with a carefully enunciated, "ma'am."

The only reaction this elicited from the woman was one blink. Apparently, she was not going to be intimidated, and for some reason, thoughts of Casey's mother sprang to his mind. Sure enough, when she spoke again, it was evident that she had not backed down one iota.

"When you have filled out a deposit slip – _sir_ – I will be pleased to serve you," she said with the same icy tone she had used before, making it sound as though nothing would please her less. She unlatched her arms and produced a deposit slip from some secret hiding place at her wicket and pushed it towards Casey.

He very deliberately gave her his best greenshirt-terrifying glare as he pulled the slip towards himself and picked the pen up again to begin to fill it out. As the tip of the ballpoint lightly brushed the paper, Casey was aware of an index finger waving just inside his field of vision. He raised his head sharply to discover his face was an inch away from a long, very sharp-edged scarlet nail attached to the teller's finger that was pointing towards the desk in the middle of the room that Casey had already visited when he had first come into the bank.

"Over there," the woman instructed firmly. Her eyes had narrowed, and the look she now gave the agent was even more venomous than before. Casey knew when he had met his match, and he revised his opinion in that instant, deciding that this woman could probably intimidate even his mother.

Without responding, he picked up his check, the deposit slip and his sunglasses and turned to leave the counter. He was only narrowly able to resist the urge to flinch as he heard from behind him one final insolent-sounding word from the woman: "Sir."

He made his way back to the center table feeling a little warm under the collar, and once there, walked all the way around to the other side so he could face the wicket counter and maybe have the chance to launch a few mental daggers at Mrs. Congeniality.

Just before Casey put his sunglasses back on, he noticed the cute teller's eyes were on him as she bowed her head slightly and tapped something into her keyboard for the customer she was serving. There was an amused smile on her face, and Casey got the impression she was laughing at the situation rather than at him, so he relaxed his expression into a sexy grin and winked at her before turning his face again towards the old bat in the adjacent wicket. Then he slowly slipped the earpieces of his glasses into place and let the lens portion rest near the tip of his nose for a moment before sliding them up and into place by pushing on the nosepiece with his middle finger, which was extended straight upward. By the way the corners of her mouth turned up a bit more and she dipped her head slightly, Casey could tell the cute teller was having a hard time suppressing her laughter at his predicament and the obscene gesture so obviously directed at her unpleasant co-worker.

Deposit slip. Oh, yeah.

Casey fixed as much attention as he needed to on the scrap of paper on the desk in front of him and laid his paycheck beside it. The check showed the payer as "Ultranational Energy Consultants" with a faked head office address in Washington, D.C. The NSA, of course, had set the whole thing up to the tiniest detail with a bogus website, 1-800 number, and even authentic-looking office space in a building in just the right section of the capital city. Anyone who mistook the premises for the real article could even come in and have their request for consultancy services heard by genuine engineers who were on the payroll of the NSA to run a portion of the company as what it appeared to be, but its underlying and primary function was as an administrative hub for the agency's field agents living undercover, as Casey now was.

Ready to complete his small clerical duty, Casey reached over to his right, plucking one of the bank's pens from its holder and bringing it towards himself. Stupid pen. The wire that tethered it to the desk wasn't long enough to reach all the way over to the spot where Casey was holding down the deposit slip. He tugged at it a couple of times like a moron before deciding that he was going to have to slide over a step so he could fill the thing out in a normal fashion. Just as he began to move his feet, the tether wire snapped away from its anchor and Casey now had hold of the liberated pen, which he stared at for a moment with a blank expression before shifting his eyes guiltily left and right to check and see if anybody had noticed.

When the bank's alarms didn't go off and after Casey was pretty sure nobody was aware that he had damaged bank property, albeit accidentally, he shrugged his shoulders a tiny bit and began to write out the deposit slip.

No ink. Of course.

Casey flipped the deposit slip over so the blank side was facing up. Scribbling furiously in one small spot in an effort to get some ink to begin flowing, the only thing he managed to do was make a small hole in the paper and work himself up again to a low level of impatience. Finally, remembering that he was carrying his own pen, Casey dropped the cheap bank implement onto the desktop and used his left hand to draw back one side of his suit jacket a bit so he could get at the inside pocket. Just as he was about to plunge his hand inside in search of his pen, he felt the strange sensation on the back of his neck that he had felt earlier, the one that usually meant the approach of a hostile.

Before he could remove his hand from under his lapel, Casey felt a tight grip on his right elbow. Checking out of the corner of his eye, he was just able to see a uniformed bank guard, hand resting on the butt of his gun and looking warily at Casey from about ten feet away. The one up close and personal was the partner.

Well, whatever it was they thought Casey had done or was doing, at least they weren't going for the high drama. Some rent-a-cops watched too much television instead of going to actual training seminars, and the evidence of their enthusiasm was regularly shown on the nightly news, usually in the form of innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.

Casey let Grabby Cop talk first, and the man spoke in a barely audible and slightly wavering tone, saying, "All right, mister, come with me, and I'll just take that gun of yours."

Realizing that these guys had probably been watching him from the minute he stepped into the bank, Casey quickly reviewed what he had done that might have gotten them nervous. Oh, yeah. He was big and stood out in most crowds. He had moved around to several places in the bank as though he hadn't known where he should be, which could be interpreted as stalling for time. And he had kept his sunglasses on for most of his visit. Even Casey had to admit to himself that he would have been suspicious.

The icing on the cake was probably the glimpse of his gun these guys had gotten when he had reached for his pen after he had finished "writing" on the deposit slip. They most likely thought he had been preparing a demand note and getting up his nerve to go over to the only wicket he hadn't yet stood in line for. So, yeah, time to go easy on these two.

Casey made no move at all and remained frozen in place, hissing to the guard, "NSA. ID card is in this front pocket. I'll take my hand away and turn to face you. Let me know when."

The pressure on Casey's elbow eased up and the guard took a pace back as Casey turned around slowly to face him and removed his sunglasses, placing them on the desk surface beside his paperwork. Reaching into his pocket gingerly, this time in search of his ID, Casey held the guard's eyes with his own until he had extracted the small wallet and flipped it open so the guard could have a look. As he did so, the agent added, "Appreciate it if you keep it quiet," and the guard nodded once before relaxing and stepping back yet again.

He made a small signal to his partner, who also stood down but remained where he was, and the guard said to Casey, "Sorry, sir, just doing our job. You were acting a little strangely, if you'll excuse me for saying so."

Casey grunted in a friendly way to show there were no hard feelings and turned back to his deposit slip as the guards moved away. As he did so, he noticed the cute teller was looking directly at him this time but with a dark scowl on her face. Seems she had seen the little confrontation and was taking sides not in favor of Casey. Oh, well, he'd have this slip filled out in a minute now that he was using his own pen and would be able to smooth things over with her after he waited in yet another line and got back to the counter.

He figured he could get a date for dinner, at the very least, even if it was just for some company during a meal. Overnight company with a civilian was a little more complicated, but Casey was more than happy just to spend some time with a pretty girl, wine her, dine her and engage in some good conversation. If she were really special and worth the paperwork, well, that was another matter altogether, but first things first. And it seemed to Casey, from her previous behavior, as though this woman was going to agree to a date.

But much to Casey's dismay, he never had the chance to work his charm up close. As the customer in front of him finally finished the transaction and gathered up his papers to leave, the cute teller threw one seriously nasty glare in Casey's direction before giving her chair up to another teller and hurrying away behind the counter and out of the transaction area. And as luck would have it, the person who now sat at the final wicket was the old woman, whose disposition had, if anything, deteriorated from the first time Casey had dealt with her, the only advantage being that she was in no way inclined to draw out their second meeting, and she deposited Casey's check after scowling suspiciously at the deposit slip and counting out his cash quickly and accurately.

The whole encounter, which occurred in absolute silence, probably took all of a minute and a half before Casey was free to leave, and as he did so, he looked over to the office into which the cute teller had disappeared, not so cute now because of a severe frown still distorting her face while she watched his progress to the bank's door through the panel of bulletproof glass.

Casey gave an inward sigh as he put his sunglasses back on and left the bank, dateless. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building for a moment before deciding where he needed to go next, he smiled wryly as the last line of the poem by Ernest Thayer ran quickly through his head:

_But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out._


End file.
